Knife and Leaf
by Ruelux Prince
Summary: A choice. Legolas Thranduilion or Agarlas Sardothien. Three kings, two princes. What will he choose, light or darkness, hope or shadows? Will he fight for his name Greenleaf, or will he stay Bloodleaf? Nothing is what it seems, and stories are the most important tales to tell. Fire is finally catching.
1. Lost Star

**Warning: **Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, traces of Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

_"Where are you Legolas? Come out, this isn't amusing anymore!"_

_"Enough is enough Legolas, return home this instant."_

_"He isn't here."_

_"But where could he be?"_

_"Ada, Lord Thranduil, we found something!"_

_"This is..."_

_"Blood."_

_"Whose?"_

_"Orcs. Spiders. Oh by the Valar!"_

_"Elfish blood. Look at the silver tint."_

_"Do you think...?"_

_"LEGOLAS!"_

_"For the love of Valar, they have to come now don't they."_

_"What do we have here? Four elves all alone in the woods?"_

_"What have you done to Legolas."_

_"That elf earlier? Nothing. Master wants a little word with him. Something about hope and stars."_

_"Morning..."_

_"Thranduil? What is it?"_

_"What's wrong elf? Shocked that one of your race are gone? There's nothing for it, you're never going to see him again. 'Sides what do you need him anyway, one less of you won't make much of a difference."_

_"My Lord?"_

_"Be silent."_

_"Thranduil?"_

_"I don't care if I have to turn Arda upside down, I will get my son back. Mark my words."_

* * *

Some says the fate and the future are the same things, just spelt differently. Others says that they are two complete different things, intertwined at some point, but altogether separate. They are the two things we all tried to look for, or fight to change. One says that our futures are not set in stone; our fate will change as we move towards our future, changing it in the process. Another says that our fates will never fade; only hidden as we search to change the future we may have seen.

Fate is something clouded, hidden. Only blindingly charging into your future, and to your fate, can find it. Some futures are always changing as you move forward, but others, are set.

This is a story.

A dangerous story. A prophecy. A future, that is set.

It began after the dark lord Sauron is defeated and the One Ring is forgotten. The Last Alliance between elves and men are finished, lost. The wood-elves of Greenwood the Great retreated back into their forest after the death of their king and founder, Orephor. Rohan flourished while Gondor crumbled. The elves kept to themselves in their hidden valleys and vast forests, and began to fade into the myth and fables that circulated from men.

That's when the Stars are born.

Two stars, one for evening and one for dawn.

The Evenstar is the one that welcomed the night and its lights, the star that shines discreetly upon Arda, guiding lost souls through the plains of Middle Earth, to either their safety or their fate. The Morning Star is the iridescence that cut a swathe through the darkness of night, soft or otherwise, giving hope that a new day will come, it does not matter if the dawn is stained with red, a new day came, and with it, hope.

The Valar chose two elves, one from Imladris, the daughter of its lord. Fated to meet her true love for the price of immortality, to go through life and toil, to sadness and loss. Arwen Undomiel, the beloved Evenstar of her people. Loved by all, forgotten by none.

The Morning Star remained a tale of bed time stories amongst all. With the utmost exceptions of the elves in Mirkwood. He is destined for something far greater, but also far darker.

The star was a prince of Mirkwood. He was chosen when its trees were brighter than any light that could be produced by men, when they can still sing to the elves that often sat in their boughs. Then the prince was born, in the last ray of winter, where the first leaf of spring pushed from its branch. Their star, the elves all sang, and they honored him.

This is a story, a prophecy about the stars, about morning.

For the next thousand years, the prince grew. He became familiar with the bow and he soon became the best archer in all of Arda. The Valar crafted the two stars a jewel each. A spiraling thread woven into a leaf that cushioned a bright star for Evening. A piece of mithril etched around an arrow like shape, made by six green leaves that spelled the Morning's name.

The jewel of the Evenstar will eventually be given to a king, her love, as a reminder of the reason to fight. The gem for the Morning will be held as evidence, when he eventually becomes lost, for the wood-elves, for his father, to recognize their prince, even in a different form.

But peace is always a fragile thing, and soon a shadow cam to Greenwood, built itself a fortress in the south. Its evil began to poison its surroundings. The trees, the soil and eventually the land itself. The wood-elves fought back diligently, but could not hold back the shadow. They began to lose hope. For the next hundred odd years, the hope slipped through the hearts of the elves like flour form a sieve. Orcs and giant spiders began to cross their borders, keeping any outsiders away, but also trapping the elves in their beloved forest as well.

They looked to their prince, the Morning Star, for hope. He gave it to them, they all believed in him. They fought back with harder than ever before, the darkness wavered. The shadow was furious, and sought a way to destroy that precious hope.

He took the star away, twisted him to the shadow's own will, thinking to let him fight off his own people. The elves of Mirkwood were furious and attacked with even more vigor and strength. They finally drove the shadow away from their forest. But the cost was great, and the damage was done. Their beloved forests will never be the same again, and their beloved prince was never coming back.

This is the future that's set in stone. What happens after solely depended on the characters' choices. Life is merely a play; all the men are merely players, a very important play, where there are no rehearsals for the road ahead.

Speaking of plays, it would be a good idea to introduce you all to the main characters:

Crown prince of the Woodland Realm Mirkwood, the Morning Star of Arda. Legolas Thranduilion.

Agarlas Sardothien, one of the most feared and powerful beings in all of Middle earth, Sauron's Lieutenant.

They are one and the same. But which one will he choose. In the end.

* * *

_"This is merely a choice to make. To go back or not."_

_"Will you allow it?"_

_"Choices are merely illusions. In this world, there is either kill or be killed, simple as that."_

_"I understand."_

_"You do not remember anything."_

_"Why should I?"_

_"Indeed...What have you forgotten, was the better statement."_

_"Not a single thing, Master."_

* * *

**A/N: God what was I thinking when I started another piece of writing? I still have one to finish up, one to type up and one to get it going. Still I am obsessed with Lord of the Rings. Can't get enough of it. Aragorn will play a big role in this. **

**Translations: Agarlas ~ Blood leaf**

**Sardothien was from Celaena Sardothien, main character from the The Throne of Glass series. Also an assassin, a seriously good novel.  
**

**I love the Morning Star thing, got my inspiration from **The Stars of Arda Series. **Really good writer and story.**_  
_

**I need a beta. **

**Reviews are welcome.**

**Does anyone know how to scan something? I actually drew a picture of the Morning Star's necklace. How do I get it on here?**


	2. Fangorn Forest

**Chapter One: **Fangorn Forest

**Warning: **Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

"Hello, Gandalf the White."

The blinding light dissipated immediately, snuffed out like a candle light out in a stormy night. Gandalf's hand instantly went around his staff, slightly raised to ward off whatever distinguished his light he used to cloak himself not a moment ago. The Wizard caught sight of the two tresses of midnight black hair flowing out from a helmet that hid only the eyes of his caller. Gandalf let out a relieved breath, but does not lower his staff. The elf is dangerous even in a diplomatic situation.

"Hello Gandalf, glad to see you have returned." The moving shadows melted away when their master snapped his hands. Two long locks of midnight extended from the helmet that hid the startling silver blue eyes that the famous lost prince possess. Loose armor. Twin white knives and a quiver of arrows sat on his back. A black long bow lay in his fingers.

"Hello to you too Agarlas. You are on your way to Fangorn as well?" the old wizard asked. Hands slightly shaking. One never knows what you can receive from an unpredictable being such as this.

"The Dark Lord asked me to verify the condition of Saruman in Orthanc." His mouth twitched slightly to show his sensitivity about the traitorous wizard. He will not openly disregard a servant to Sauron, but he shows his disgust blatant enough, if the piles of orc patrols Gandalf has seen in Mirkwood was of any indication.

"I'm thinking of visiting the forest as well," hopefully the lieutenant won't recognize the white lie.

"You are to wake up the Ents, correct?"

"That is not my intention."

"Most could never decipher your riddles that mark your intention Gandalf, nor do you speak them for the fear of the dark solving your riddles." Agarlas bit back a smile, even though he doubts the now White Wizard could see it in the heavy shadows that follow his commands to the every ends.

"Saruman…" Gandalf started, trying to get as many information as possible through the lieutenant, temporarily forgetting the other dozen or so times that attempts have went. Straight downhill and very painful.

Agarlas' face visibly shifted into a grimace before turning into a small smirk. "I am forbidden to tell the Dark Lord's plans to any of his enemies. I am quite sure you are aware. Or has rebirth clogged your memories?" the amusement was evident on the dark elf's features, even if the topic could potentially lead to the survival or the extinction of Arda.

"Go back while you still can Gandalf. Men are stubborn and foolish creatures that can never be trusted. The path ahead of you is bathed in blood." the grimace was back again as if reliving one of the less found memories.

"I will not abandon men to the fate more painful than death," the White Wizard's tone was soft, yet vehement.

The elf nodded mutely, maybe grateful that at least one being had not left Middle Earth to its fate. "Then travel to Rohan and break the spell casted on its king. Beware of Orthanc and its army."

"What journey awaits you?" he is concerned, oddly.

"I am not going outside of my boundaries. I am not disobeying. You need not worry about the Ents. They are going to wake, after all." A rustling of leaves, slender fingers found its holdings on the bark of a thick oak. Legs prepared to leap, the shadows eagerly awaiting their master's commands, wanting nothing more than to please.

"Farewell Gandalf. I've got a lot of orcs to kill." The shadows wrapped around the elf, effectively cloaking him back to their safety of night. He turned his head before the shadows spread, "Hobbits are amazing creatures."

Gandalf listened to the oak tree's disappointed sigh when the elf's hold was gone. He straightened his robes and prepared for the rocky lofty words ahead, for Rohan, for Fangorn, and eventually, for Gondor. It meant a lot of things when it was Agarlas that started the conversation. Good and bad. Terrible, but great things. Which side was the ultimate question.

"Until next time, Legolas." He hoped the elf was out of ear shot. The new body has not yet forgotten the scars from the last time he said the elf's true name. An idiotic secret, but one he is sworn into keeping.

Elves can be such strange creatures. There is no predicating was this elf would do.

* * *

"Did we lose him? I think we lost him," Legolas took aim, pulled back his arrows and let loose. Its trajectory halted by the thick skull of the orc, the two hobbits let out a startled scream. Their efforts at crawling away renewed at the dark bubbly presence not too far away.

"Do not fear, I am an elf," he called out. He watched the fear melt away from their faces as he allowed the shadows to uncoil around his delicate ear points.

The hobbit with the curly hair took a step forward and spoke up, "Thank you, Master Elf, for saving us. I'm Merry. This is my cousin, Pippin. We are from the Shire."

He nodded; satisfied that he got the right ones, "Come, young hobbits, it is not safe so near to the edge of the woods. I would like to meet someone."

"Ah, young one, I heard you've entered the wood once again," a familiar drawn out voice came from behind him. The two hobbits gasped in fear as their eyes stared upwards.

Legolas smiled softly, remembering the voice from the last time he was in Fangorn Forest. He turned around. "Treebeard, greetings," he said to the tall, stiff-limbed Ent. "_Nae saian luume_," he said in his native tongue. "Has it really?" Treebeard asked before he saw the hobbits. He suddenly glared at them. "Orcs!" he growled.

Legolas quickly stepped in front of the hobbits and held out his hand to the Ent. "Not orcs, Treebeard. They are hobbits of the Shire, leagues northeast from here."

"Hobbits? Never heard of a hobbit before. Sounds like orc mischief to me."

He felt the hobbits huddle closer to him, fearful of the talking tree's wrath. "Treebeard, trust me. They are not orcs, but hobbits. I'm not surprise you never heard of them. They hardly ever travel out of the comfort of their Shire. To see one away from their home is rather rare. They are a peaceful, simple creature," Legolas tried to reassure. "They are not here to harm the woods, but to take sanctuary. Will you grant them refuge, my friend?"

Treebeard rocked back in thought. "Umm…I'll let the White Wizard decide their fate."

Legolas blinked in surprise and he heard one of the hobbits whisper, "Saruman" in horror. "I see, a great Ent such as you should have heard a long time ago. I met him on the way here, he is no longer gray. He became white to help where Saruman would not."

Treebeard nodded and the elf turned to the two hobbits. "I want you to go with Treebeard. I trust him. He will not lead you astray. A great Ent such as him will never side with the Wizard that no longer cares for trees and their voices."

Pippin gave him a wide-eye look. "You're not going with us, Master elf?"

Legolas sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Pippin. I have much more dangerous things to do. I will let you continue your quest in peace."

Merry nodded with large eyes. "We understand."

Legolas chuckled. He glanced up at the Ent. "Treebeard will know how to reach me." He gave the hobbits a gentle smile. "I will remain within the country of Rohan for an unforeseen amount of time. It depends on how long I rest. Safe journey."

"Goodbye, and thank you," Merry said before climbing on the offered limb of the Ent. Pippin waved to him before following his cousin.

"Um, excuse me Master Elf, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name?" Pippin called.

He paused in his steps, grasping his bow tighter in fear of letting the hobbits see his trembling hands. He could fell the raised eyebrow and the expectations of the old Ent radiating outwards in tumbling waves.

"You must swear you will never tell a single soul, alive or otherwise."

A feat of confusion passed over both hobbit's faces. Even with his back to him, Legolas couold detect the wondrous smile on the Ent's features, obviously hiding between his beard.

He took a deep breath, knowing full well he punishments the Dark Lord will no doubt dealt him when he gets back to the Black Gates of Mordor.

"I'm Legolas, Legolas Thranduilion."

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**A/N: The game is finally starting! This chapter is not really one of my best chapters, but I hate not updating even more.**

**Clearing something up: Gandalf knows who Agarlas is, around the quest for Erebor. I had this all paned out, don't worry. Legolas' helmet was like Zero's helmet chopped in half, leaving only the upper part. Less flashy of course. Just google Zero's helmet and choose the black and purple one.**

**Translation: _Nae saian luume - It's been too long_**

**I need a beta. **

**Reviews are welcome.**

**Does anyone know how to scan something? I actually drew a picture of the Morning Star's necklace. How do I get it on here?**


	3. Orthanc Tower

**Chapter Two: **Orthanc Tower

**Warning: **Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

_Never disobey my orders._

_Never hinder the movement of darkness._

_Never directly harm your master._

_Never halt your killing blade._

_The four testaments ingrained my head as I first took on the sight of the dark lord in all its glory. I couldn't make the blood red words disappear, couldn't shave them off my mind no matter how much I strained. I couldn't even fight back, to move, to somehow block the commands using my limbs. I couldn't do anything. For the first time in more than a thousand years, I was helpless. The voice painfully reverberated in my skull, etching its words deeply into my brain, and I knew I would never be able to fight that command._

_A touch of cold icy hand on my neck, I shivered involuntarily. The hand was strangely comforting, like the comfort ada would bring when we used to sit in mother's private gardens. The bright sun, the singing trees and the soft grass for company. It felt like a life time ago._

_"Never forget."_

_Confusion. How could I forget when they are tied to me like steel puppet strings, shackling my limbs, controlling my every move. He is he master with the thread. I'm only the doll that goes wherever the string leads._

_"Never forget who you are."_

_I could no longer decipher sentence from command. Every word that comes his mouth meant order. An order I must obey, or face the heated consequences. As if the brutal training was anything to go by. The day I was taken, captured because I ventured a little too close to the dark fortress._

_I was too close…_

_"Who am I?"_

_Who am I really? Am I the Morning Star that pulls the elves of Mirkwood to hope, to light, away from the darkness that threatened to take my home? The brave prince that goes with each patrol to claim back Mirkwood inch by inch? The prince that swore to his father that he would use his arrows and knives to cleanse the forest of foul before making it Greenwood again? No matter how much I try, I could never find that prince anywhere inside me anymore._

_The bright necklace that once symbolizes difference was now no more than a stolen relic._

_Darkness has taken root inside me. And it does not want to leave._

_"Who am I?"_

_Or am I the weapon that Sauron has so painstakingly crafted. Teaching. Shaping a mold until it was to his liking. Adding layer upon layer, pain after pain, until Legolas Thranduilion was buried deep under levels of Agarlas Sardothien, that no one, not even myself, can find Legolas again._

_"Legolas and Agarlas, you are both. But you can only be one." A smile, warm…somehow. From him._

_"Will you?..." Panic, uncertainty, desperation, fear. All mingling together into a tight coil. My heart nearly stops. Please, please don't force me. Please._

_A soft chuckle, still warm, like the little torch of fire light that he would allow if he is pleased with me that day, to levitate the cell's darkness, just for one night. "That will be your choice. You may choose. I will not interfere."_

_I look up, and there is a light in his blood red eyes. The same eyes that I dreaded to see each morning. The same light that always appear in ada's eyes whenever I achieved something remarkable. A light of pride, but also resignation. As if sad that I grew further and further away._

_A swish of cloaks and long midnight hair and he is on the other side of the hall. A pale hand already opening the thick wooden door. "Come Agarlas, we have procrastinated enough." He shot me a glare, red eyes narrowing._

_For the first time in seemingly forever, I don't flinch at the mention of that name. I stood and ran to keep up with him before he shuts the door. Sauron never can and never will go back on his words, even if he knows he is going to fail._

_I have a choice. I can choose._

* * *

_Orthanc was the black **impenetrable** tower of Isengard built by the Dúnedain. By the Great Years and the War of the Ring it was possessed by the wizard Saruman. It stood in the center of the Ring of Isengard, great defensive walls fortified by the early Gondorians.  
_

"We cannot let the Wild Men go past Westfold, they'd be too vulnerable. Pull them back."

"Yes, Lord"

The White Wizard Saruman pinched the bridge of his nose, once in a while the sharp nails on his crooked fingers would jab into his face. He welcomed the short pain, finding it refreshing and helps to focus his tired mind.

"If you are so tired and inefficient, maybe I should ask Him to find someone else. More worthy to rule his army."

Saruman whipped around at this, his ebony staff gripping tightly in his hands. The voice is soft, clear and wasn't an orc's, more like an elf's. But there is no way in Arda that an _elf _could sneak into Orthanc. There is no elven assassin. Well, there is one place that house one... Curses and spells already on his lips before he saw the shadow move. And a figure stepping out of the pool just confirmed his suspicions._  
_

"Hello Saruman, a long time," A small smirk graced his lips. Thin pale fingers caressed the long black bow, tracing over its intricate designs that were often carved into place by Legolas himself . His posture was stiff, as if trying to appear nonchalant. The Wizard could practically see the shadows' anxious calls to their master, and the gleeful cackles some of them inserted in between cries of worries.

Sauron was once a Maia like himself, so he searched far and wide for books that would expand his knowledge and with knowledge, came power. It was no wonder if the lieutenant has this knowledge, even is he doesn't, there is still the magic that is unique to the elven kind to worry about.

"It has been quite some time since you last visited Isengard," He confirmed the statement and clutched his staff tighter. If the Dark Lord has sent his personal assassin to kill the wizard, Saruman would not go down without a fight.

It was a well known fact that Sauron's trusted lieutenant is an elf. But why is an elf doing sauron's bidding was anybody's guesses. It was impossible for a creature with so much light to have survived to be trained in the dark depths of Mordor.

"I have news, something that you unfortunately, over looked." He clutched his staff even tighter, if that was possible. "The White Wizard approaches to Rohan, to fill the place in which you abandoned Saruman." The last helf an edge of bite, as if scolding and hating the traitorous wizard for abandoning his post that was given by the Valar themselves, along with his power.

As if sensing their master's bitter tone, coiled around the 'elf' possessively, ready to attack whomever that caused their Master's annoyance. Saruman felt thousands of eyes fixed upon him. Sending shivers down his spine. Legolas just stood there, obviously enjoying the wizard's discomfort, a pale hand gently stroked the shadows, half comforting and half ordering them to calm down. To not attack the staff wielder, _It is not his time yet._

He leans close, gathering up the shadows around himself like a cloak and a shroud, "Do not fail the Dark Lord, Saruman. Destroy Rohan. If not, I will destroy _you!" _He flicked his wrist and the shades went over his head like a cloak, and he was gone, leaving nothing behind save for a throwing dagger on the floor, so well hidden in the dark that if not for the best of the Dunedains, none can find it; and that suffocating coldness he received long ago in places foul as Orthanc that followed him wherever he goes.

Saruman hurried out the room and down the hall, not wanting to fell the wrath of either Sauron his lieutenant will no doubt bring the next time he visits.

"Work the fernaces day and night, burn down the Forest of Fangorn if you must, build me an army worthy of Mordor!"

* * *

_"Please!" He screamed once again, but the guards outside had either left the room or were ignoring him. The darkness around Legolas was eating him alive. Evil surrounded him and bore into his flesh. The elf let out a whimper of defeat, and crawled over to the side of his cell, where a tiny stream of light came through an air hole. Legolas curled up and hugged his knees, then closed his eyes, trying to make the darkness and evil disappear._

_I am in Mirkwood, and it is night. The elf told himself. The stars are hidden by clouds, that is why it is so dark._

_No, a voice in his head said, it is dark because you are in an evil place. You are with evil itself. You are evil, Legolas._

_"No!" The prince cried out. "Leave me alone! Please, just go away."_

_I will never go away, Legolas. I am in you. I am the darkness in you, trying to escape._

_"NO!" Legolas screamed, and his eyes flew open. He grabbed and clawed madly at the door to his cell, and screamed until his throat went dry. Slowly, the darkness overtook him, and he fainted into a nightmare-filled reverie._

* * *

_The forest are burning._ He acknowledged this with tear filled eyes. He could rip a village into a million pieces without batting an eyelash, but he still felt the pain of the trees. Sauron had more than once told him to not answer the tree's pleas and questions. After a couple of decades, he could block out the voices, but if he gets even the slimest of chances to respond, he would do anything and everything to help.

He would not let his tears fall. He has learned long ago to contain them, keep them above ground. He learned those lessons the hard way, and nothing could make him experience it again. Where each tears counts as hours in the dark. _Forgive me._

If the Hobbits are unsuccessful in convincing the Ents to participate in the oncoming war, then this atrocity by that traitor most definitely will. If the half-lings were as quick witted as he thought them to be, they will convince Treebeard to go South.

He is not going outside of the orders set forth when he first came before the Dark Lord. If he found a way to disobey them... He would probably be a pile of ashes by now.

With a quick glance back at the burning woods. He allowed himself a satisfied but melancholic smile, and disappeared through the darkness the trees kindly provided for him. The trees, no matter where, will always remember the prince of the elves that could hear and communicate them best, the last of the Royal bloodline. They will always protect the Prince, they will keep his secrets until he allowed them to be spilled.

To Rohan... Where the shadows and darkness reign free. To Rohan... Where the first step to destroy mankind will commence. To Rohan, to Gondor, to Elessar.

To another crossroad, where a single man's actions may result in victory, to doom to defeat.

No matter the choices set forth by disappointing men, he will never go back to the dark.

_Do you still remember me? After all this time? Estel..._

* * *

**A/N: The game is finally starting! This chapter is not really one of my best chapters, but I hate not updating even more. And that is stretching it. ****Everything I write on here will be of use to the plot in some way or another, so please, bear with me.**

**About the first person part of the story, I suck at first person to a degree of nastiness that deserves to cast into the fire of Mount Doom. I find the first person perspective a bit morbid at times and very hard to write but is just so much more exciting.**

**English is not my first language, since I lived in China for 12 years. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar, punctuation and the tenses category.**

**Clearing something up: Legolas is not willingly going to be Sauron's lieutenant at all! He is just glad that he could not be Agarlas in the not-so-soon future that he complies and goes along with it. Bidding one's time I guess. The elf can slaughter a whole village in ten minutes with a pair of chopsticks, so yeah, Saruman will be scared. If the Dark Lord Sauron captured you and you are the hope and light and a dangerous asset, and you are an elf, I think what I've written is quite mild, it happened before he was brought to Sauron and the testament thing.**

**I need a beta. ****Reviews are welcome.**

**Why does whenever I write _Dark Lord,_ I instantaneously think of Voldemort?**

**Updates will be soon be irregular.**


	4. Dark Lord

**Chapter Three: **Dark Lord

**Warning: **Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.

_**Reader: **I wonder what will happen to Legolas when Sauron finds out what hes been up to. _To answer your question, read on.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

_The Prince is in pain._

It doesn't understand why his beloved high master is punishing the prince. The prince did nothing wrong. The darkness would know, it has been with the prince since he was a sick little light elf, when high master had dragged him by his bright golden hair to be locked in the cage, where he would change.

It loved the prince, after 50 years of him changing the disgusting light elf to a powerful shadow prince, it grew to care for him, it would die for him if Prince wishes it. It would follow the Prince to all corners of Middle Earth.

Even if it meant defying the high master, the shadows and darkness would follow the prince. It loves him, that's all there is to it. The high master gave it a mind of its own, to be able to think, to be able to attach, to care. Did it ever occur to him that it would eventually defy him. If Prince so wishes it.

High master is displeased. And Prince is the one suffering.

No matter how hard it tried, it could never defy the high master without the prince's consent. Prince cared about high master, at least to a degree, at least to the reasons he has done the things he did. High master's punishments were all severe and known and feared to all. But Prince shouldered it. Prince knew the boundaries, but still he chose to toe it. It made it feel guilty that it couldn't protect the prince better.

Prince never uttered a word when high master worked his curses. He screamed only once, the first time high master brought down his flaming whip. It had once wanted the screams, but now it wished the prince would never be in pain. That way, the screams would never be there.

But prince is in pain now.

The whip came again and again. Prince had already shed his armor and weapons, crimson blood is slowly seeping though the lashes on his back. His black helm is gone, revealing Prince's silver blue eyes.

The shadows love the prince with all its loyalty and existence. But it also hates the prince's still light aspects. It was to the darkness' continue nagging that prince wore the half helm that hid his famous blue eyes, the one part of him that high master could never change. No matter how much they asked and begged and demanded and ordered and punished.

The blue eyes, and that cursed pendent.

Prince had it with him when he was first threw into the throne room, half unconscious and in thick black chains, arrows broken, bow snapped, blue eyes staring resigned up the dark throne to the lord that would cause Arda' destruction.

His once golden hair had been tainted by the evil that constantly resided in Mordor, seeping into his roots and painting them forever black, but the light inside him remained.

The leaf necklace he wore underneath his armor, becoming a soft ink pattern drawn in his flesh to protect it from the blackness that so desperately wanted to destroy it. Oh, how it wanted to destroy it, to shattered it to a million pieces. Only then, would the prince be solely his.

The light is such a pest.

* * *

He underestimated the elf.

He could never imagine anyone that could weasel his way around his fire ingrained commands. He should have known news would leak out from those maggot orcs. If he's being honest, he's surprised that the elf had taken this long to take action. Albeit indirectly. It won't be long before he would take up arms with the army the elf belongs.

He finally have the chance in over an age to finally sleep. Curse that human, Isildur, for not destroying that ring he was forced to create by his imprisoned mentor. The Morning Star was the chance he had in a long time to finally sleep.

The valar created the Stars, placed the curse onto two for the benefit of the many. They are selfish beings, answering one's prayers much later than it should have taken. If they had just pulled him out of that damned throne room before Morgoth cast that spell to give him to the darkness forever, Arda would still be a peaceful realm, where every being, even _him,_ could live peacefully.

He looked down to the elf lying in a pool of silvery blood he created with the flaming whip in his hand. He was shaking, from rage or may perhaps something else. He started to care for the elf. The same elf that would cause his destruction, and finally bring him to sleep.

He preferred to call it sleep, than death.

The elf is gasping, taking deep and pained breaths, face pale and beaded with sweat. He was once kneeling, head bowed and not wanting to look up, but now he's struggling to keep eye contact with the master he is forced to serve.

He tilted the elf's chin up, to provide a bit of relief but his cool hands. Sauron is not completely heartless, he is just used to freezing his heart, even up in his dark tower. He had decided long ago that it is better to freeze one's heart than to be exposed to the elements, even the pleasant kind.

"Beg Le'las. beg me to stop," He hasn't used that name since Legolas froze his heart, surrounding it with thorn bushes and poisonous snakes, burying his emotions deep under him. the time where he still wanted praise, no matter who had given it to him.

It was a name the king of Mirkwood had once used to address his son, before Legolas decided to forever bury that painful memory.

The darkness came forth, reluctantly, not wanting to hurt its beloved prince, willing to defy him with just a word from the person it loath and love the most. He told what he wanted it to do, he's giving them a gift, to help its prince.

It seeped into the elf lying in a pool of his blood, pushed and shoved its own being to be the first to reach his heart. Wanting to grab hold of the organ and the source of the light and taint it forever its own shade.

Orcs had been turned this way before, countless times, when the shadows could not restrain itself and tore the light inside the captured body to shreds.

"Beg Legolas, beg," he called again, using the name the elf wanted so badly to have back again.

He stared defiantly up at him, not wanting to beg to a being that has taken him away to a whole new nightmare. But the shadows aren't giving him a choice, it attacked the walls around his heart and light and mind, wanting the high master to make it stop, but also to keep going, to finish claiming what it so loathed.

He doesn't want to lose the only thing he has left of his life before. Sauron can break him, but what he couldn't do was take away his memories. The memories he painstakingly protected behind painful shields to keep them away from the blackness that constantly wanted to snuff it out.

"Please…make it stop..please," he rasped out through clenched teeth, hating himself for how far he has fallen.

To his relief, the darkness relented, and Legolas collapsed in a heap at his greatest enemy's feet. Sauron kneeled down, extended a hand, ignoring the harsh flinch that rippled through the elf, carding his cold hand into Legolas' midnight black hair and whisered.

_"Now, for Rohan…"_

* * *

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_  
_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_  
_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_  
_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

It has been such a long time since he sang that little lullaby. He used to sang it to his son when he woke up screaming at night when the darkness that surrounded their beloved woodland realm would come out of their shells and play and laugh and seek young little fledglings that it could grab for their master. Most elves could never sense it, but the Morning Star can.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_  
_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_  
_Here is the place where I love you._

How long has it been. Since the elf that was just learning to brush his hair turn into the best archer in all of Mirkwood, firing arrows into the skulls of spiders and orcs, laughing and singing and smiling and raging at and for their beloved woodland, father and son both fought tooth and nail to protect each other and the forest they live in until their last breath.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_  
_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_  
_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_  
_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

The fates are cruel. Why couldn't he control his temper for once that day? Why couldn't Legolas just stop and listen and not reject the startled apology his father had given him. Why is his only child so brave and loyal and thoughtful and ambitious all at once? If he had insisted he stop, if he had insisted Legolas stop and listen to his father... He would still be here, by his side, fighting for their kingdom. He would still be here.

_Here it's safe and here it's warm_  
_And here the daisies guard you from every harm_  
_And here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_  
_Here is the place where I love you._

Comeback...Please Le'las...Please.

* * *

**A/N: The game is finally starting! This chapter is not really one of my best chapters, but I hate not updating even more. And that is stretching it. ****Everything I write on here will be of use to the plot in some way or another, so please, bear with me. I revealed a lot of things about Sauron. Don't get me wrong he still wants to kill people and bring an age of darkness to Middle Earth, he still needs to be stopped. I just want there be a better reason for him to do the things he is doing other than I-am-better-than-you-so-KNEEL-before-me.**

**English is not my first language, since I lived in China for 12 years. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar, punctuation and the tenses category.**

**Clearing something up: Do I really need to? The poem was Rue's Lullaby from the Hunger Games. I'm just borrowing it for a while, I just thought it is peaceful and really really sad and it contains a lot of things.**

**Reviews are very welcome.**

**Why does whenever I write _Dark Lord,_ I instantaneously think of Voldemort? Makes sense since I am writing a Harry Potter fanfiction on him and someone else named _Prince and Misfortune._ Please take a look and I dare you to guess who that someone else is just by looking at the title.**

**Updates will be soon be irregular.**


	5. Helm's Deep

**Chapter four: Helm's Deep**

**Warning: **Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

The Battle for Helm's Deep and the survival of Rohan wasn't over yet.

The tired army hastily conjured saw a beam of hope when the Rohirrim came charging down the hill with Gandalf at their lead, radiant and staff raised, charging with the dawn's light unto the massive army of orcs. A glimmer of hope shone in every warrior's faces as they charged with renewed vitality.

They drove the orcs to the thick vengeance emitted by the massive Fangorn Forest, where the trees creaked and cracked and the orcs that almost destroyed the men of Rohan was no more than a distant painful memory. They have victory, after a long night of blood shed, gore and sweat. There should be a feast, songs, laments for the honoured dead and happy reunions with their scared family inside the caves.

But the danger has not passed.

On the same East cliff the hope for the people of Rohan flew down on horses, baring spears and banners and swords that glinted in the warm sun's light. The once warm rays now turned cold and fearful, easily distinguishing the rare hope in the warriors' heart as easy as putting out a candle left outside on a stormy night.

On the cliff side stood Agarlas Sardotherin, the Dark Lord's lieutenant, the Prince of Mordor.

The Prince could certainly be beautiful if not for his reputation and the ever changing darkness that pulsed like waves and the shadows that leaked from the nearby trees rocks, turning into wraith like beings behind him. A black half helm covered his eyes, where only long flowing black hair that fell to his waist could venture into. Pale skin and thin lips. Long fingers grasping the reins of a flaming horse, hands skilled at cutting open throats and ending another life of a proclaimed enemy.

All of the free people of Middle Earth often wondered how many foe Agarlas had slain, how many rivers had the prince and assassin turned to crimson, how many flowers and leaves turn red by splattered blood. Like his name, _blood leaf._

The fearful name Agarlas surfaced to Middle Earth 70 years ago. It's reputation spread far and wide. Small towns and villages were destroyed and often set up in flames, all of the innocents killed all have a small blood splattered leaf left on their chest. Aragorn had seen it with his own eyes the fallen elf that gave his very soul to Sauron could do, how many innocent man he had killed without even trying.

Innocents, or so all of them thought.

The Dunedain came across a seaside village, with plenty of orchards and poultry that always had the lingering scent of salt. It was a peaceful day, the streets filled with merchants and children, running and selling and laughing at the top of their voice, they all sound a bit false to the rangers' ears, but they paid it no mind. The Dunedain smiled amongst themselves, turned around and left, only Aragorn remained behind, and the mask crumbled.

There were fights, violence, liquor foul to the nose. Children shrieked, smacked by sharp wands made from willow trees. The change was so drastic and sudden that Aragron could not even begin to comprehend. It turned cold and dark, people opened their doors and peeked outside, they don't like change and Aragorn retreated to the to the safe shade of a nearby alley to watch and wait.

That was where it erupted. Shadows and darkness.

It passed Aragorn with only a small pause in its steps. The darkness was like the sea, tumbling out like waves, crushing houses and destroying market stalls, snatching and devouring man and woman like it was nothing, like it was a sentient being. The shadows became wraith like beings, seeping into cowering nobles and merchants and turning them inside out. The children were mostly spared, some woman too, and they fled.

When the blood had started to turn brown and flaky, when the screams of horrified men were driven out of his mind, Aragorn looked around and saw him. Darkness coiled around him like an obedient servant, waiting for its master's command, the shadow wraith almost whispered something in the prince's ear, he paused. He dipped his helmed head in acknowledgement when he found the alley Aragorn stood in, threw something into the air, spurred his horse, and was gone.

Aragorn recoiled as if someone had struck him when he saw the object that landed in the middle of the blood soaked street. It was a small branch with only three bright green leaves stuck to the brown twig, quickly turning red and some spots brown in the pools of crimson that dotted the cobblestone street.

He was a terrifying sight to behold on top of the hill that overlooked the decimated seaside village, standing much like how he did now, staring down at a bettered army through his black helm as if contemplating the fastest way to stick an arrow in between all of their eyes.

Aragorn wondered again as he stared, why would an _elf_ betray the light his race fought so vehemently to protect. He felt fear, in the moving shadows, in the traitorous elf. _Agarlas_ was an elven name, he did not dwell long on it, it would be quite foolish to let hope dominated his every being. He surprised himself with this, he thought he had given up hope for his once time friend and confidant. After all this time, it seems, hope never left.

The question _What does he want_ and the plea _Please don't attack_ was on everyone's mind as they gazed at the solitary figure. Aragorn could see the shadows getting impatient, Agarlas tilted his head, shifting his long black hair slightly and the shadow calmed and retreated.

"What do you seek here Agarlas?" Gandalf asked, his voice never wavered in the cold silence, raising his white staff slightly hinger than he normally would need. The was something in the wizard's ageing voice, something Aragorn could not identify, something akin to hope.

The prince tilted his helmed head again, his horse reared slightly, sharp fangs showing and baring at the now white wizard. "I seek to speak with you, Gandalf the White, and you alone." His voice was silky, like the smooth side of a coffin, unwelcome to disagreement, cold to hear, to touch. Somehow, that soft voice did not quite belong to the Prince of Mordor, but the prince of somewhere else.

The lost Prince of Mirkwood.

Gandalf bowed his head slightly, "Very well, the forest then." The prince nodded, gave a warning like look to the blackness behind him. It curled in upon itself, as if to sulk, then dissipated.

Everyone let out a breath they did not realise they were holding.

"Gandalf..." Aragorn started, not wanting and not liking a single bit about the current situation. Even without the blackness behind him, Agarlas was too dangerous, too powerful. He was an elf, so the trees of Fangorn Forest was also a rogue element.

Gandalf flashed him a grandfatherly smile, half hidden behind his white beard, and spurred his horse to the forest. Agarlas had already disappeared into its boughs sometimes before.

There was a tense silence as the warriors made their way back to the fortress of Helm's Deep, on guard and fearing the outcome of the little talk with their magical saviour. Until only Theoden, Eomir and Aragorn himself remained outside. The Rohirrim would intermediately charge out if there was even a scent of wraith or moving blackness from the wild forest.

They all waited with baited breath, giving half an ear to listen to the sounds inside the walls. There's swords unsheathing and javelins thrusting, silencing the still breathing orcs inside the barely standing fortress.

Then...

There was the familiar gallop of Gandalf's white stallion, taking the practically glowing wizard out from the currently not so mentally stable forest. There was no blood, no wound, no gash in sight, there was also no prince.

Aragorn wondered again about the mysterious and powerful Prince of Mordor, and the effect he has on people.

Gandalf did nothing to hide the radiant and ..._smug? _smile that crossed his lips. His white robes even whiter and even more blazing than before. How?

"What did you talk about?" Aragorn asked. He had seen Gandalf this bright only when he had the riders of Rohan and the dawn's light behind him as he practically flew down the East cliff to the death of the orcs bellow and the aid of them all.

The wizard only flashed him a muysterious smile and gave a "You'll find out soon enough."

**_PoM_**

Legolas spurred his horse, commanding it to go faster through the ancient trees of Fangorn. It seems the ecstatic nature of Gandalf the Grey did not fade when he turned to Gandalf the White. He needed to get to Mirkwood, the forest near the Lonely Mountain, almost on the other side of this land.

The war to the white towers of Gondor is coming, the Dark Lord is preparing his army to march on Minas Tirith. He needs to convince the Elvenking Thranduil to help, to fight, to form an alliance with the race he so despised. Even if the battle in front of the white towers are won, there's no chance to say the ring bearer could complete this task. The prince of Mordor himself avoid walking through the black realm if he could help it, even with shadows and darkness by his side.

The shadows tells him many things, so does the tress if he can convince him of his origin. They told him about the council in Imladris to decide the fate of the One Ring. They told him about the Fellowship's adventure through the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria and the lost of the grey wizard. They told him of Isengard, the two hobbits there and the rebirth of the grey one. They told him of weakness in the black gates of Mordor, of the madness dwelling in the steward of Gondor, of Boromir's death at the orcs he had not slaughtered.

Most importantly, the shadows told him about Mirkwood, about the patrols and spider nests that plagued the once beautiful realm of elves. Sauron had point blank forbidden him from coming even close to Mirkwood's borders. The tortures and 'lessons' were still fresh in his mind that day when the Dark Lord bellowed that order, so Legolas stayed away.

Gandalf had told him what he wanted to know, and he had given the wizard as much information as he could. He no longer feared his master. The end is near, the Ring bearer was already half way to Mordor with the creature Gollum as his guide, the battle is Minas Tirith would end in defeat or victory, and the free people of Middle Earth will make their last stand in front of the black gates of the dark land, for freedom or death.

He doubt he could see either the death of them all, or the death of his master.

He would see Mordor fall, or die trying.

After 70 years of darkness, pain and sometimes hard earned solitude, Legolas Thranduilion, not the name he created for himself to be close to the one he could not have, was going home.

It's just a question of whether or not, he can stay.

* * *

**A/N: Here we are, starting for the past. I'm using the movie version of LOTR, I have read the books but thought it would be a bit too confusing for some. Including myself. I recently had an obsession to princes, so bear with me and blame Severus Snape.**

**You know Prince of Mirkwood has the same initials as Prince of Mordor**

**English is not my first language, since I lived in China for 12 years. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar, punctuation and the tenses category.**

**Reviews are very welcome. ****Updates will be soon be irregular.**


	6. Fire Stories

**Chapter Five: Fire stories**

**Dedication: **To masters and kings. To beasties and godmothers. To Maleficent.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

There were two kings in Legolas' life. One light and silver green, the other dark and dripping red.

One taught him many things, archery, nature magic, swordsmanship, reading, laughing, playing, protecting, wondering. He made Legolas' soul into who he something bright and untainted, the kind elf shut inside a wooden cage, with only an arrowed leaf for company. A unmoveable king.

He taught Legolas to believe, to never lose hope, to wonder at the world around him, to fight for what's right. And not what's easy.

The other taught him three things, and gave him the snarling darkness to wield. His expectations were high. and he always turned a blind eye regarding the prince. It took him a long while to trust his young charge, but it was a trust well worth it.

Never break in unless you know the way out.

Shadows were everywhere, even amongst the brightest stars. The darkness always helps its prince.

Never make a cage you can't get out of.

There was a cage named Mirkwood for his father. A glided box full of light and music and people that came with a beloved king. Death was the only way out, because if no one steps inside and suffer for his people, then there will be no people left.

There was a cage called Mordor for his master, a moth in a jar waiting to die. A bird singing at the top of its lungs because where there's light, there's always darkness. Trying in vain to attack the walls with his broken wings, but he always grew tired eventually, and restless.

Evil is like a phoenix, much like light. A ball of fire consumes the phoenix when it dies, devouring its essence and its memories. But from the ashes that came from the flames, a new life was awakened.

Small, harmless, untapped madness in something nobody could tame.

Destroy and kill, said the light. They sought to destroy evil without once asking nor considering whether or not the evil even wanted to be made.

The only people who should kill are those prepared to die themselves.

The only wish of Sauron, was to die. After all.

He was the king in a land a darkness and black flames. No matter how hard Legolas tried, he will only remain a prince.

The orcs and the trolls and the walgs pillaged and burned and devoured. A deal's a deal. The Dark Lord quenched their thirst for blood, in return, they fight for him. He wanted the Light to see, to understand, and to fight back when the monsters became too much.

He didn't think that he would grew so powerful and so out of control that only the combined efforts of elves, dwarves and men could destroy him.

He actually cackled inside his helmet when Isildur swiped the golden ring off his finger. Laughed broken and bloody to the dark sky as his blackened soul vaporized in the air, gone without the key to anchor him.

He didn't understand the greed of men as well as he should.

Orcs were made from elves simply for the fact that they will last almost forever. They have the mighty endurance of the fair folk and their proud determination. They hunger for the their light, the thing they once possessed but was lost when they succumbed to the dark.

Sauron was an elf once, free and fair, a bright elfling that could bend fire and light to his will. He would often conjure balls of flame and juggle them around and around in the air, garnering laughs and squeals from his friends. It was just a tuft of orange, incapable of harming anyone. Perfectly safe to hold it in your bare hands.

But elves were a race of light, of mornings, of trees and meadows and arrows fired from ornate bows. He was none of those things.

He preferred the unspoken surface of the stone rather than the singing trees with bright leaves. He preferred the dim twilight to the radiant mornings, preferred the long swords with wicked hilts, whips with pronged tips than the flying arrows and smooth knives of the fair.

He did nothing wrong, but the immortal light, with their wisdoms and years, were succumbed to fear of the unknown far easier than the mortal humans.

Fear of the different, fear of the night.

When the men from the east and the orcs from the north attacked and raided their homes before the bright trees of Lothlorien, no elf stayed nor turned around for the little elfling screaming for help, and soon, mercy.

They fled, to the light, and abandoned the night.

They saw, they paused and they turned the other way. Perhaps even celebrated the demise of the odd little boy and his dark tricks with flames.

Morgoth found his half buried under a pile of fire logs with the still cackling flames. Alive and unafraid at the towering man standing in front of him with the sharp blades and the cold steel shadows writhing behind him. He reached out a bloody hand to see if the shadow man was actually real, or was the product of his overly active imaginations. A thing that could make Galadriel laugh and Thranduil scowl.

When the man asked him what does he want to do with that fire of his, the elves flashed in his mind. He thought they were his friends, people he could fight along side with, people he could place his trust in. Was he so different that even the holy elves would reject him? Was he such a monster that even the most kind-hearted folk would find his vile and strange?

_I want to make then burn_. He said to the man/wraith, dark eyes enflamed with orange and red as he stared up at Morgoth, unafraid and determined. _I need to make them pay_ the only thing on his mind as he stared defiantly into shadowed red eyes.

Morgoth extended a hand, coldly knuckled in steel gauntlets, dripping red and oozing black. Both of them a substance Annatar did not know. A curious little beastie, taking the wrong faerie godmother's hand.

Morgoth bound him, life, soul and magic, to the eternal darkness. There's no reprieve, no mercy and no escape. There was a curse, a curse ripped from the demon's fanged mouth when he was cast down to the deepest dungeon Mother Earth could provide for the light.

Sauron was locked in his tower, the tallest one that looked down upon them all like ants and boots. He heard it, he felt it, and he sought to embrace it.

Death will only be delivered, by what you call son.

He mastered orcs and wyverns, goblins and trolls. They were given one task to perform. Kill and destroy. All for the sake of his One Ring. For his inevitable death everyone sought. The only reason he wants it, is to throw it into Mount Doom himself. Or order one of his ringwraiths to do it.

He pushed all thoughts of the curse out his mind, until the Nazguls brought back an elf.

Unconscious but alive. An heir of Mirkwood, still bright and stormy.

The Witch-King threw the blood covered prince to the foot of an empty throne. The elf was still sane, and could still fight with the long knife on his back if not for the bounds on his person. Wrists, ankles and mouth, all covered with tendrils of flaming black sand.

He came out of the shadows and raised a hand, and the halls were left alone for him and the now mystified prince.

The elfling, for he was but a child in the Sauron's eyes, would no doubt have heard stories about the dark lord in the dark lands where the sun refused to set foot. About the armies of the foulest species to ever to appear in Middle Earth. Of the sad fates the humans and dwarves and elves wrought upon themselves.

A prince of mornings and stars, of trees and songs, trapped beneath the gaze of the lord to forgotten stones and flames.

A prince of Mirkwood, of an elven kingdom protected solely by arrows and knives, rather than the two rings of power. The prince, no doubt, would have been part of patrols, to exterminate orc raids and spider colonies.

He loved fear.

He dragged the prince up by his wrists to face him, holding onto the black bounds and noting the trembling hands. Mirkwood was a place of danger, of venom and dirty blades. Was he so terrifying that he could make the prince of the woodland realm tremble?

The elves don't like change, after all.

He wasn't born to be kind.

The prince has beautiful eyes, he noted, silver-blue, like the sea, like the stars. Like his own elven glow he lost a long long time ago when he took his master's hand.

He loathed them on sight.

With a flick of his arm the prince's writs were locked and pinned above his head and to the base of his throne, an useless piece of rubbish he never wanted. Black fire coursed through his hands with merely a thought, and he brought his fingers to the prince's eyes, close enough for him to feel the scorching heat, to taste fear.

The legends spoke of the dark lord's powerful armies, of his snarling shadows, of his flames that could ignite and burn a town into ash with merely a flick of his hand.

The prince was just like his father.

Before a king, a prince was always there.

He had met Thranduil when he was still Annatar, a tall elf with a forever air of pride and power. Thranduil has been drawn to the dark elf through his words and his flames. Annatar took to the then elven prince because of his eyes.

Silver-blue. Brighter but also dimmer than the pair of radiant orbs of Galadriel.

He wished he had eyes like that once, the color of bright stars instead of charcoal black, muddy and depthless. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and he always wondered if he ever had one.

There was indeed fear in the prince's eyes, but he was not looking at the ball of flame only inches from his umblemished face, regardless of the jouney he had taken to get to infamous tower of Barad-Dur. He stared calmly into Sauron's eyes, something few had managed to do and live to tell the tale, resigned but unbreakable.

A hint of puzzlement in his eyes, a taste of anguish, a bit of grief. But underneath all the stars and the mists and the frozen ice, was wonder.

Wonder, at the stone and blackness. Wonder, at his own week and tragic fate. Wondering, at how the handsome elf before him became one of the darkest things ever to set foot in Middle Earth. Wonder, at how he could change that.

Thranduil taught him well. A wondering prince, a curious prince.

He wonders for a moment then and now if all the darkness inside Mordor, the land where the shadows lie, had gouged his eyes out and he shoved two stars into his empty sockets to take their place, and that's why those blue eyes are so bright!

Sauron could see the arrowleaf pendant tucked inside his grime covered tunic. A star surround by blood and dirt and ripped up skin but still somehow remained clean, untouched. Pure. Much like the prince locked before him.

Sauron murmured under his breath, and the flames turned into moving shadows, alive and writhing, and ver yeager to obey its master's commands. The prince only made to cry out once, a half silenced scream constricted by the gag, before he understood, and relented.

There was a new beastie, an even more curious one, and he was now the faerie godmother. He knew the roads that could be taken, lives to be cost. He vowed to himself then, that he will never offer a hand to the wondering child that cast his twoo bright gaze upon a monster.

The prince was bundled into the shadows, and he would never fear the dark.

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**A/N: Here we are, starting for the past. I recently had an obsession to princes, so bear with me and blame Severus Snape.**

**You know Prince of Mirkwood has the same initials as Prince of Mordor**

**English is not my first language, since I lived in China for 12 years. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar, punctuation and the tenses category. ****Reviews are very welcome. ****Updates will be soon (define soon) be irregular.**

**Question: How do you say I want to bash a brick to your face, nicely? Answer: One wishes to acquaint your facial features with a fundamental item used in building walls... repeatedly.**

**I deserve it, don't I?**


	7. Tree Stories

**Chapter Six: Tree stories**

**Dedication: **To the last Hobbits sequel that is both awesome and unnecessary.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

* * *

It has been nearly seventy years, and he was still alive. Against all odds.

They were still alive.

It didn't feel right, somehow. Though he knew his little lead would do anything to keep him and his people safe. Somehow, that didn't feel right either.

He's a king, the last elven king in Middle Earth, eternal and ethereal, an evergreen tree that refused to fall no matter how much you burned it. Tall, strong and proud, a king that could go into battle with his people, a king that would stain his ivory blades black and blue, and would always come out raging victorious.

Single handed, and imperious.

There was time when he wasn't alone, when there was another figure beside him. Smiling, beaming, with a halo of golden sweat across his brow, happy for their victory, happy for his ada.

There was a time when he wasn't alone, when he still had someone to give his very life to. When he could still move freely, and love with all his heart.

His first son was born of the first day of spring, the thin of frost barely broken, the first leaf of green already born on the tip of bravery.

A small little leaf, green and delicate, with both the star's light and the sun's rays behind it to give it strength and power. The little leaf was brave, and fearless. So was his prince.

When he took the small bundle from Elrond's arms and held it in his own, he flet his heart expand, and his love multiply into immeasurable bounds. Before the dawn's first light and the crystal shade of the small emerald leaf, he received his son.

The first, and soon to be last, son of Mirkwood.

When he received his third son, Dol Guldur rose, and darkened the forest.

His leaf, with the brightest eyes that could rival the northern star, with the quickest fingers that could rival the fastest stags, took up arms. He was barely of age, an elfling really. When he should be in the kitchen, swapping sugar for salt, he was out in the woods, swapping arrow for blood.

The bow was elegantly carved, with the bow string made from his golden hair and the best silk of a hundred dead spiders. The arrows were dwarven inspired, crafted by the second prince's dead hands, the ember shafts flying golden in the cold twilight.

When he first saw his little leaf flying in the trees, shooting gold and delivering death from the skies, there was no pride in his heart, only shame, and sadness.

Shame, that he was not strong enough to protect the people of his woodland realm, that he was weak enough for the darkness to take hold, that he was not good enough to protect the ones he loved.

A hundred year had passed since the rise of the Necromancer. A hundred year since he had lost his sons to the spiders and the orcs and ground. A place elves of any kind should never set foot.

His first son was named Leaf, for the bright jewels that dangled the treasure trouves right off their doorsteps. His second son was called Light, for the brightest rays the sun had given, to each of them in turn. His third son was Free, the way he would often stretch his shoulder blades and stand on his tip toes to take flight.

Free was only ten when he sneaked off to the woods in chase of a fawn, Leaf found him beaming, the white entrails of the fawn spilled over his torn tunic, throat slit open from ear to ear, an orc pack picking apart Free's corpse for a little bite to eat.

Legolas was only two hundred, an elfling's elfling. He killed them all, with only a pair of singing daggers, and the groaning of the trees.

Light was just older when he was stolen from them, through blood and gore and arrow's wrath.

Mirkwood had lost two sons, he refused to lose anymore.

He's a king and his job is to secure his kingdom. He's a prince, his duty is to protect his home and everyone in it.

It was supposed to be three princes together. One brought light and hope, one gave flight and strength, the last protecting the trees and its kingdom for all eternity.

Mirkwood was callous, and real and did not know how to show affection and compassion before it was all too late. Before Legolas took up his bow and became all three sons of the woods.

If Mirkwood had persuaded him to stay strong, then maybe he would have lived. The king wasn't even there to give his son mercy to carry into death. No blood, no revenge, no sword was offered, just a messenger from Mordor that called himself Agarlas Prince.

How he detested the word prince.

Any news of his leaf disappeared shortly after the Battle of the Five Armies. After he scourged the frozen peaks of Ravenhill and destroyed the bats of Gundabad, with the dwarves of the mountain and the eagles of the skies protecting his back.

He left right after the battle, still too young to fully stomach the death and the blood and the screaming wounded left to die when the elves' magic and the man's herbs could not save them from the pain, nor the agony.

He was by his horse when Thranduil found him, his leaf armor swapped for a more simple folded tunic and vambraces. He did try to persuade him to stay, but stubbornness apparently run deep in the family, as was the eyes.

He was his son, his leaf his hope his light his wings. the only legacy left to him by his beloved queen. A mere child in the face of time. A star so young to see blood and be calm and open about it.

His eyes were misty, the iron wood king was crying, letting his long imprisoned tears flow out of its confines, staining but not taking hold of his sky blue armor and singing blades.

He opened his mouth to make him stay, but all he could do was to wipe the long dried blood from his prince's cheeks. The blood of his leaf and the blood of others. He has his duties to the future king of Gondor, and as a father and a king, he has to let him go.

His leaf buried himself into his father's arms, and he himself placed his gloved hand around his son's head and pulled him deeper into himself, as if to shield his elfling from all the horror he already faced and would not likely forget.

When they came apart, there were stars in his blue eyes. The king's eyes were always frost covered, to keep the burning flames from escaping. The prince's eyes were only recently frozen, not soon enough to keep it from melting.

"_I have a gift for you,_" he said. And from his own armor he pulled out something valar-made, meant for a beloved morning star.

It was the pendant leaf of morrow night, small and utterly beautiful, something that King Thranduil would've liked to be given to his son when he's at his of-age ceremony of one thousand years in front of the whole world, aplauding ferociously to their star and their prince that could shoot down the moon and no one would miss it because he was night beauty enough for the world.

It was a small thing of great value, hanging from a chain of silver and blue, pristine and pure. Farther than the moon, higher than the sun.

The pendant itself was small, eight leaves pieced together to from an arrow, each as thin as glass and light as a feather. Two lines of mitheril extended up and outwards, circling the arrow before knotting into a small ring of bright stars.

"It'll protect you," he whispered as he carefully slipped the chain around Leaf's neck, avoiding the weapons strapped to his smiled slightly, curving his lips upwards into a barely noticeable arc, so different from the smirks adornign his lips just an hour ago.

_He'll need it_, the conscience inside himself whispered.

There's an evil out there that could not be destroyed by the mere presence of a man, not alone, the burden of the chosen one was heavy on everyone, especially on a rider with a hidden name.

"Be safe, Le'las," he said when he grasped the reins of the prince's horse for a last word and a silent goodbye. "And remember to come home," he said, smiled as his son promised and sped off, never looking back.

Thranduil taught each of his sons to honor their promises and value the cost.

Only six months after the Battle of the Five Armies, when everyone's rebuilding the Lonely Mountain, Dale and their own lives, did the ill news came.

Prince Legolas Greenleaf Thranduilion, was missing.

By missing, the messenger meant _no where to be found and is either dead or captured by orcs._

When he forced himself to move, he found that he couldn't breathe. All the air was sucked from his lungs in a great swoop. He barely managed to keep himself upright and dismiss the ranger to whence he came.

Why?

He locked himself inside his chambers afterwards, hiding from the world like a child from thunder, like a coward from battle. Was he so wretched that the valar would punish him like this? By taking away his precious sons one by one until he is but a moving shell and his kingdom naught but dust?

Was he so stubborn and unforgiving that he would warrant such a hefty punishment?

He knew perfectly well what would happen if you get captured by orcs. They'll either torture you beyond recognition, or mold and change you until you are nothing you once were, just filth and scum and shadows.

He should know, Legolas should know the best of all. Was he not the one that chased a stray spider out into the woods, and came upon the stung up corpse of his beloved mother?

Life has been hard on then all.

But maybe Legolas could live, could be free, could continue on. He has seen and experienced great and worst things at such a young age, and he always came out with flying colors. Crimson and green.

Maybe there was hope, after all.

Thranduil would cling to every last strand of those delicate hope with both fists until they shatter in front of his face by the dark army of Mordor. Until then, he would not lose hope.

Hope, that a miracle would be gifted to King Thranduil of Mirkwood, that his son was safe.

Hope, that a blessing would be given to Prince Agarlas of Mordor, that he could go home.

Fate answered yes, and Sauron could care less.

It was another six months after the disappearance the Greenleaf of the Woods that Thranduil saw the Bloodleaf of Mordor.

It was a patrol lead by Thranduil himself, a request from the White Council to access the remains of Dol Guldur. HE was with his royal guard, with half of Imladris' army behind him when he made for the abandoned fortress.

Not quite abandoned, as a matter of fact.

When he reached the submit, the highest point of the fortress was when he saw it. The pulsing shadows and the midnight elf.

He was the only one unscathed, his guard slowed and tangled by the trees in the scorched courtyard, limbs filled with thorns and spikes that had wounded many spiders and elves alike, controled by the one on top of that fortress. Not the one he was seeing, just the one he was looking.

It was an elf, young but dangerous. Thranduil did not hesitate, his sword sang as it was drawn from its sheath.

The elf was different, different than anything Thranduil had ever seen before. The shadows pulsed and snarled and cloaked around him. Gauntlets with mythical violets runes around his arms, tunics tucked inside metal shoulder plates, lithe armor for a monster.

He was almost like an elfling, if you can ignore the blackness blanketing him, in and out.

A thick metal mask kept his waist length midnight hair from falling into his face and his eyes from being seen, just barely allowing his pointy ears to show. The great cloak was draped across his shoulders, blood and shadows stemmed from the moving fabric, and the darkness bowed low to it.

The elven king did not ask his name, nor did he reveal his own. An elf with such control of the darkness could not be trusted to not attack once a sound was spoken. Thranduil did not think the strange one would reveal his origins and master before the king.

He pursed his thin lips when he saw the drawn sword in Thranduil's gloved hand. Arrows were drawn and set all around him. From the warriors of both colony and kingdom of the Eldar.

With a snarl the shadows of his cloak spat the objects to Thranduil's feet.

The arrows in the quiver darkened by orc blood; the knife blades shattered, the hilt covered with grime; the long bow broken in half, the silvery-red of elven blood painting it copper and brown. The cloak was shredded, mud, grime, dirt and blood on the once blanketing forest green.

A cloak with a broken emerald clasp, seen only on a prince. The bows and arrows of intricate carvings, made by the finest smiths of Imladris that crafted Isildur's sword a long time ago, fit for a warrior.

That was all of Legolas' belongings, things he trusted to protect his life. All broken and shattered, just like his hope, just like him.

The father fell to his knees, and almost allowed his hope to slowly drift away.

"He's safe," the shadowed elf said quietly, his voice carrying itself easily over the desolate plains of Dol Guldur, the shadow itself magnifying the quiet tune.

Thranduil snapped his golden head up from where it was bowed to the stone, hesitant to rekindle his hope. A messenger of Mordor with the things of a morning prince, bloodied and torn, would never try to help him up.

"Your star prince is safe and well," he repeated in a little sing song voice, almost giddy, deep and melodic.

He shook his head slightly, the shadows bubbled and raged one last time before retreating into immovable things that could harm no one and no thing. "He sends his regards, the prince and my lord." His lips pulled into a soft smile, and the darkness shivered.

The elven king glared harshly at the shadows, his twin swords drawn and ringing, sharp and sinigng, ready for blood and death.

The shadow elf laughed, his thin lips curling into a smirk so like Thranduil's own creation. "You're not strong enough, Elvenking," he sang along side the darkness around him, "You'll never be strong enough to take your son away from us." The elf snarled, his shadows hissing along with him.

With a swift motion of his arm he had the shadows gathered around him, with a flick of his finger the darkness exploded outwards, knocking weapons askew and elves off their feet.

There was no father that stood when the shadows dissipated and found the elf no where to be seen, just a king. A king that has lost too much. A king that cannot lose anymore. A king willing to do everything in his power to take back what was rightfully his.

"We shall see," he screamed, "I will get him back, even if I have to tore up Mordor inch by inch to find him." He roared for everyone to hear.

Thranduil Orophrion was never week, just not strong enough to do what's needed for them all.

Imladris sent its last warriors to Rohan, to take part in the greatest siege in the history of Middle Earth. Lothlorien sent its galadriem to the white capital of Gondor, for the battle before its door step that could rival the five armies of Erebor.

Mirkwood perhaps marched for the most selfish of reasons. The dark amber armor of the woodland sprites was seen before the black gates of Mordor, before orcs and goblins and trolls and Nazguls five times the number of the siege in Helm's Deep and Minas Tirith.

Thranduil marched for a selfish purpose, a selfish end. But was it not the means that matter before the end results?

Prince and Son.

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**A/N: I finally downloaded The Battle of The Five Armies so I can finally marvel at the amount of CGI and awesomeness in the film. Thranduil too, because he is probably one of those characters that you can spin into every possible angle. And so so fun to write. **

**Thranduilion - Son of Thranduil. Elves don't have surnames that they follow, so parents use that when they children get into trouble and have to be grounded. I think. Or its just a respectful term they use, or something. **

**Question: How do you say I want to bash a brick to your face, nicely? Answer: One wishes to acquaint your facial features with a fundamental item used in building walls... repeatedly.**

**I still deserve it。**

**Can people please review so I know there's actual people reading this and not some hydroponic robots from outer space that wanted to get to know Earth better so they can destroy us?**

**The actual Mirkwood is next. Promise.**


	8. Mirk Blood

**Chapter Seven: Mirk Blood**

**Dedication: **To Avengers: Age of Ultron. One of the most anticipated movies of all time. That actually lived up to its name.

**Disclaimers see author's profile page.**

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Elves are immortal.

They have everlasting life, beauty and power, endless time and never fading memories.

Elves never forget, no matter how much time it has been, no matter how long ago it would seem, no matter how much they actually wants to, they never forget.

Thranduil does not want to forget, though he would do anything to make it less painful.

There's no crown on top of his head, no staff of kingship in his hands, no twin swords strapped to his battle ready body. He was no king tonight, no warrior, no lord. Just Thranduil Orephorion, alone and grieving.

He was just a simple father tonight, staying with his son's belongings, desperately tricking himself into thinking he's still here. Just a father in his lost son's rooms, trying not to drown the onslaught of memories with liquor and spirits.

Like many grieving father he has seen to do.

In Legolas' chambers, in his tower, the memories are overwhelming.

His son did not have his rooms near the ground, situated next to as many branches and roots as possible. He had his chamber up in the skies, the highest tower of the palace, oldest and strongest, built and strengthened by many uneven bricks and stones.

Thranduil had never understood the reasons for the tower until much later.

It was by chance they he chose to look up at the sky when taking a slow strode through the moon lights. He could just make out a figure, jumping out the balcony of the high tower, feet deftly keeping a hold on the uneven rocks before sprinting off into the woods.

Greenleaf arrows already loaded onto his bow.

He was a star, the brightest star, the last star in the sky before the light of the sun swallowed the night. The last sign of vigilance, of pure beauty before radiant bright.

He was a star, and he belonged to the sky, to the night. He was no stone nor tree no spring, things that found refuge and family on the ground. But he was a star, and he would one day take to the sky, to where he truly belonged.

There was no sky in the forest, no sky in the ground, no sky with his father. The time wasn't right, the loneliness wept inside.

So the prince of a forest built a tower, to be close to his final resting place.

It was night, and Mirkwood was eerily silent.

The king of the dark forest was crownless, and tired. For sixty years the forces of Mirkwoods swept through the forest like a comb, driving out all traces of darkness and blood from the forest boughs.

They cleaved Dol Guldur to the ground, and completely destroyed the spider nest that littered around their kingdom. Light was finally shining through the trees again.

Thranduil did not knwo what to do after the battle within the forest was over. His forces could not travel all the way to Rohan or Gondor to aid in the war, nor can he ride to Mordor with Mirkwood behind his back to demand his son.

There's nothing he could not but wait, and see if a miracle could happen.

He could wait, and find solace.

It wasn't easy these days, the pain and the memories flickering up everynight, with Legolas riding off with the sun and the red behind him, never to be seen again. IT was only within a place of memory, can the pain be subsided.

The tower was one, the stables was another. Two places in the whole palace that can be called Legolas. He was a prince, a captain, a warrior. The bleak council room was never his calling, nor was the kitchens or the target ranges, something he didn't need when he had a whole horde to spiders to kill, not even beside Thranduil's throne where he ruled beside his father.

The star tower was filled with Legolas, the smell of leaf and candle light was thick in the air. The shelves were nailed to the wall, filled with various trinkets collected from all over Middle Earth. Bows and arrows were abandoned in corners, blood stained moss lying beside them.

Everything was just as it had been, the sameness waiting for its prince to come in through the door, the sameness with the high expectations that Thranduil could never fulfill.

The stables changed, for that the king's glad.

Mirkwood was known for its arrows and liquor, and he Thranduil was known for his swords and his steed. His majestic stag that could instill fear in his enemy as easily as the prongs on its head could pierce open the stomach of an orc like knife on cheese.

Legolas was the closest to Sleipnir, the great stag of Mirkwood, accepting the presence of the animal into their family after the demise of pretty much everyone around them both.

Sleipnir was the closest to Legolas, and was still ignorant about his disappearance. Or rather the stag refused to believe it and had done away everyone that tried to tell him otherwise. Of ten pacing the length of his enormous stable as it waiting impatiently for a leaf to come fluttering in. Late, for once.

Quite like Thranduil, as a matter of fact.

Because of his temper and his refusal, no one but Thrnaduil himself could get close enough to Sleipnir before he erupted into a thunderous rage. It may seem preposterous for a king to tend to his own steed, but Thranduil didn't mind one bit.

Imagine him pleasantly surprised when he saw the stable latch undone when he came to, and voices filtering through the reinforced walls.

Thranduil stood frozen, hand on the silver latch, when he heard the song.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_  
_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_  
_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_  
_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, there was a meadow. A lush green plain of bright flowers and soft grass. There were three princes.

Leaf hiding the the boughs of trees. Free hiding behind a thick bush of black berry, Light whisper laughing behind the broad shoulders of his ada. All of them rest assured that the silver tresses of their Nana would never reach them.

They each have their own strengths. Their abilities in battle was far superior than their Nana's. Leaf with his sharp eyes and sharp bow. Free with his wind like laugh and storm like feet. Light with his powerful elven magic, dragging the darkness out of the woods with his glow alone.

But their Nana had her voice, and her songs.

Her name was Faerveren.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_  
_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_  
_Here is the place where I love you._

Faerveren's eyes were a bright silver, like the moon. Faerveren's hair was silver, like the willow branches shaped like whips under the silvery moon.

If Thranduil is the sun, the Faerveren was the moon. With her bright silver hair and star lit eyes, she was the lady of the woods and princess of the skies. The sun and the moon together, made the stars.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_  
_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_  
_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_  
_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away_

Faerveren didn't have the sharp weapons of the elves of Mirkwood, didn't have the powerful bodies of the royal guard. But she did have her voice, a voice that could force orcs and spiders alike to stop when she opened her mouth. Singing like light and darkness and blood and water as she wove a tapestry through them, threaded by blood.

Other elves became jealous, nobles, scholars, captains and generals. All of them urging their king, Oropher, to take that elf witch off his personal troop, the one with the brightest voice of all.

Oropher relented, but he saw something the rest didn't, and gave her to his only son. A son that has long been conquered by her songs.

In his three children, only Legolas inherited the star lit voice of his beloved mother.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_  
_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_  
_Here is the place where I love you._

A voice Thranduil thought lost long ago.

He pushed open the stable catch but didn't go in. He wasn't sure if he's living in a dream, or a nightmare too real to tell. If this is not real, then he doesn't want to wake up.

The cloak was discarded carelessly in a corner, the bow and quiver was strewn on top of it. A simple coat was across his shoulders, its many coat tails swishing as he worked the brush across Sleipnir's main.

There's no mask covering his face now, just midnight black strands tickling his cheekbones. Sixty years did wonders for an elfling, and Thranduil was not there to see him grow into age.

He had expected red eyes, the color of fresh blood, or the color of rusted copper. Sixty years would make even the elves change into something new if you weren't there for him every step of the way. If it weren't for the eyes half hidden by Sleipnir's great antlers, he would have missed it.

It's a bit disconcerning to see your own eyes reflecting back to you, framed by midnight and not golden light.

The shadows were murmuring, whispering in a whisper soft voices. Thranduil didn't move, waiting for anything to happen. To tell him it wasn't real.

"It was too soon," he murmured to Sleipnir's soft ears. If not for the elves' advanced hearing, Thranduil would have lost him again, and the stories after.

"I chose Agarlas because I had no choice, because when you are alive, you have a chance to do something."

"I lived, I killed, and I mourned."

He buried his face into Sleipnir's mane, no doubt inhaling and remembering the soft perfume of ashwood and cold iron steel that has calmed countless kings and queens, "I just want to go home."

"Home is where your heart it," Sleipnir licked his hair and was awarded an invisible smile. "I don't think I even possess something like that anymore."

Sleipnir snorted angrily at that shocked that his long lost prince would say something so atrocious, as if everything weakens and pales in the face of darkness and imminent death. Shadows smiled at the stag's reaction, though it still would not reach his eyes.

"I love the light, more than the shadow. So I'm going to keep him company when he rests. No one likes to spent an eternity in darkness."

The words taste foul on Thranduil's lips and in his head as he rolled them over and over his tongue. In his melodic voice, sleep sounded so much like eternal death to the elven king. No matter how hard he tried to spin it the other way.

"The light will save me, but not him. never him, who has gone too far over the edge."

For the first time Thranduil noticed the star hanging from his neck, an arrow leaf pendant that shone with its own light, without the aid from the moon or the dim candles.

As if he needed more proof.

"Naneth once said that death is just the next adventure, one that she promised to take me once everything is washed out."

He sighed heavily, his midnight hair falling over his eyes to hide the pain. "I'm too tainted to belong here, so I'm going to keep them both company over there."

Sleipnir whined vehemently, as if his own pathetic power could convince his prince to stay where he belonged. Thranduil wished he has the guts to do that, to barge in an take his into his arms and convince him to stay and not go following his brother's footsteps.

"I'm going," he suddenly snarled, blue eyes snapping op to stare right at Thranduil, icy fire blazing within. "I won't let you stop me, ada." He pushed himself away from Sleipnir and gathered his shadows around himself, the mask and the cloak was fitted over him in a second.

"You are welcome to come to the dark lands if you want, ada, before the cold blood moon. I might even welcome you." With a snap of his fingers the shadows rose up and pushed an unprepared Thranduil out into the night.

"And there's nothing you can do to save me." With a swish of his cloak and a snarl of his shadows, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness he claimed heartless.

Thranduil was already running.

Blood moon is too close. Too close.

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**A/N: **

**I finally stopped deserving bricks smashed into my face now!**

**Nana/Naneth: Mother, Mommy.**

**Faerveren: Spirit Bride**

**Sleipnir: Odin of Norse Mythology's steed, a horse with eight legs that could travel to virtually anywhere and nothing else can be faster. I decided on the weekend to revisit Thor and Loki fanfiction, and got myself pissed off again because of their **** father.**

**Can people please review so I know there's actual people reading this and not some hydroponic robots from outer space that wanted to get to know Earth better so they can destroy us?**


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